greenskeepers.
She knocked on the door of her other next-door neighbours, the Kruck-Boulbrias, on the south side. No one was home there either, which wasn’t surprising. It was only four o’clock on a weekday and both of them were teachers at Red River College.
Beryl wasn’t sure if it was just Ariadne who went by Kruck-Boulbria or if Mort had also adopted the name. Maybe he was just Boulbria. She wondered if Ariadne Kruck-Boulbria’s students made fun of her because of her name. She hoped so.
As she stood knocking, Beryl realized that she largely disapproved of these neighbours because of their behaviour with squirrels. Ariadne couldn’t help her fear of the noisy little critters. With all my crazy fears, Beryl thought, I should try harder to give my neighbours a break. I barely know them at all.
And as for the people two doors down on the south side, she didn’t even know their names. Things were vastly different from when she was a kid and knew the first and last names of everyone of her street, all their children’s names and ages and the names of all their pets. Everyone had kids in those days, so you were more likely to be in and out of their houses. And everyone had a dog, too, that ran free. Now even the cats were chained. No wonder the crows were taking over!
Beryl thought about the black bird that had landed at her feet a few days ago. She had taken it to the river, eased it onto her gardening shovel and carried it down. She didn’t want to picture it resting in the bottom of her garbage can, so she took it clear away. After dark, so no one would see her performing the sinister task.
Someone did see her, though, a man out walking his dog. And she had to explain herself or felt she did and he looked at her askance. She wanted to throw the bird at his head and run away. Why couldn’t he have been nice to her? His dog even hung back. She had thrown it over the cliff off Lyndale Drive Park, not looking to see whether it landed on the bank or in the muddy water. It was gone, no longer her responsibility.
Beryl glanced across the lane and saw Mrs. Frobisher working in her garden. She walked over.
“Hi, Mrs. Frobisher.”
“Hello, Beryl. How are you?” She looked up from thinning her carrots and smiled.
Rachel Frobisher was a beautiful old woman that Beryl admired. She was Ukrainian, though you’d never know it from either of her names. She had been a violinist, then a violin teacher for many years, giving lessons in her home. Her hair was a pure white cloud around her face and her cheeks were pink from her exertions.
“Pretty good, I guess,” Beryl said. “How are you?”
“A little stiff from all this bending over, but other than that I can’t complain. I’m just ready to take a break. May I offer you a drink?” She looked at her watch. “I don’t think it’s too early for a cocktail.”
“Well, why not?” Beryl said.
Mrs. Frobisher shook them up a pair of Manhattans and they sat on her back patio watching the gradual arrivals of the other people who lived on the street. Except for Clive Boucher and the Kruck-Boulbrias, who probably had some kind of extra-curricular activities.
“I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Frobisher, if you’ve seen anyone in my yard lately who looked like they didn’t belong there. Today maybe, or any other day. Last week perhaps?” Beryl couldn’t remember the exact day that her lobelia had been deadheaded.
“Please call me Rachel, Beryl. I’d like it much better if you did.”
“Okay, Rachel.”
“Well, let me think. I know I didn’t see anyone today. Except that beautiful little white cat of yours. She dropped over and sat with me awhile.”
“Did she?” Beryl spilled several drops of her drink on her shirt. She had tipped her glass before it reached her lips.
“Shoot! You’d think I’d have learned how to drink from a glass by now, wouldn’t you?”
Rachel laughed. “Would you like to go inside and try and get it out before it
She knocked on the door of her other next-door neighbours, the Kruck-Boulbrias, on the south side. No one was home there either, which wasn’t surprising. It was only four o’clock on a weekday and both of them were teachers at Red River College.
Beryl wasn’t sure if it was just Ariadne who went by Kruck-Boulbria or if Mort had also adopted the name. Maybe he was just Boulbria. She wondered if Ariadne Kruck-Boulbria’s students made fun of her because of her name. She hoped so.
As she stood knocking, Beryl realized that she largely disapproved of these neighbours because of their behaviour with squirrels. Ariadne couldn’t help her fear of the noisy little critters. With all my crazy fears, Beryl thought, I should try harder to give my neighbours a break. I barely know them at all.
And as for the people two doors down on the south side, she didn’t even know their names. Things were vastly different from when she was a kid and knew the first and last names of everyone of her street, all their children’s names and ages and the names of all their pets. Everyone had kids in those days, so you were more likely to be in and out of their houses. And everyone had a dog, too, that ran free. Now even the cats were chained. No wonder the crows were taking over!
Beryl thought about the black bird that had landed at her feet a few days ago. She had taken it to the river, eased it onto her gardening shovel and carried it down. She didn’t want to picture it resting in the bottom of her garbage can, so she took it clear away. After dark, so no one would see her performing the sinister task.
Someone did see her, though, a man out walking his dog. And she had to explain herself or felt she did and he looked at her askance. She wanted to throw the bird at his head and run away. Why couldn’t he have been nice to her? His dog even hung back. She had thrown it over the cliff off Lyndale Drive Park, not looking to see whether it landed on the bank or in the muddy water. It was gone, no longer her responsibility.
Beryl glanced across the lane and saw Mrs. Frobisher working in her garden. She walked over.
“Hi, Mrs. Frobisher.”
“Hello, Beryl. How are you?” She looked up from thinning her carrots and smiled.
Rachel Frobisher was a beautiful old woman that Beryl admired. She was Ukrainian, though you’d never know it from either of her names. She had been a violinist, then a violin teacher for many years, giving lessons in her home. Her hair was a pure white cloud around her face and her cheeks were pink from her exertions.
“Pretty good, I guess,” Beryl said. “How are you?”
“A little stiff from all this bending over, but other than that I can’t complain. I’m just ready to take a break. May I offer you a drink?” She looked at her watch. “I don’t think it’s too early for a cocktail.”
“Well, why not?” Beryl said.
Mrs. Frobisher shook them up a pair of Manhattans and they sat on her back patio watching the gradual arrivals of the other people who lived on the street. Except for Clive Boucher and the Kruck-Boulbrias, who probably had some kind of extra-curricular activities.
“I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Frobisher, if you’ve seen anyone in my yard lately who looked like they didn’t belong there. Today maybe, or any other day. Last week perhaps?” Beryl couldn’t remember the exact day that her lobelia had been deadheaded.
“Please call me Rachel, Beryl. I’d like it much better if you did.”
“Okay, Rachel.”
“Well, let me think. I know I didn’t see anyone today. Except that beautiful little white cat of yours. She dropped over and sat with me awhile.”
“Did she?” Beryl spilled several drops of her drink on her shirt. She had tipped her glass before it reached her lips.
“Shoot! You’d think I’d have learned how to drink from a glass by now, wouldn’t you?”
Rachel laughed. “Would you like to go inside and try and get it out before it
Similar Books
